


They Didn't Have You Where I Come From

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF, MCFC RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:30:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slowly but surely (and with a little help) Kun’s getting used to Manchester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Didn't Have You Where I Come From

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Written for brojan for [Sant Jordi](http://ladiadadesantjordi.dreamwidth.org/3166.html).
> 
> 2) Thank you to meretricula for looking this over.

When Kun arrives in Manchester, he doesn't notice it--doesn't _see_ it--not really. All he sees are the insides of cars, offices and crowds of people all speaking a language he doesn't understand. 

He doesn't see the Manchester Pablo talks about, the one he's so fond of, the one he's told Kun is filled with interesting places and good people. Kun doesn't see any of that. 

The second day is no better. Negotiations stretch on and on and the only places he sees are more offices, examination rooms and the hotel. 

Everything is translated for him but even so, surrounded by people talking about him in a language he can't understand, he feels lost. Pablo had tried, at Kun's request, to teach him some things, a few simple phrases. He'd even managed to master a couple. Pablo's English, though, doesn't sound like what he hears now. When Pablo speaks English, he still sounds like home. This sounds completely different. 

Then, finally, it's over and he signs. 

If anything, things become more frantic after that. He has his picture taken what seems like hundreds of times. They interview him, ask him questions about football, about England, about how he thinks he'll like a place he barely knows. He tries to be positive, to give good answers. 

When it's over, they go back out into the crowds. He signs things, smiles a lot, and lets people take his picture. He wishes he understood the crowd, the people who come up to him with huge smiles and such enthusiasm on their faces.

Then it's back to the hush of car and after that the bland, sterile luxury of the hotel. He stares out the window of the car and tries to look at Manchester, at this place he'll be staying for a while. It goes by too fast, though, and he's too tired to focus on it. 

Later, he calls Pablo. "It's done," he says, "I'm here." Pablo's happy, Kun can tell, but he's low-key about it. He asks where Kun is, how he's doing, even tells him where he should go for dinner. "Pablo," he interrupts, "I'm not--when you come, you can show me, okay? I'm just going to stay here."

"Of course," Pablo says, "right. I, I'll see you soon, okay?"

When Kun wakes up on the day he's supposed to start training, there's a moment where he doesn't remember where he is. Hotel rooms always look the same, wherever you go, and he has to think to remember. 

When he arrives at Carrington, Pablo's there. He wraps him up in a crushing hug and says, "Welcome to Manchester." He's so familiar, so reassuringly _Pablo_ , and Kun doesn't want to let go of him. "Come on," Pablo says, "I'll introduce you to everyone, okay?" Kun nods and lets Pablo tuck him under his arm and guide him through unfamiliar corridors to the dressing room. "Ready?" Pablo asks as he opens the door.

"Of course."

The dressing room is a clamor of noise and laughter and movement. Their entrance attracts some attention but not too much. 

He tries his best to focus on each person Pablo introduces him to, tries to remember names and faces, but they all blur together. He shakes hands and smiles and tries out his few, tentative English phrases. 

They seem nice, his new teammates, but even so, when they get to Silva he's almost relieved. He doesn't know Silva. They've met, of course, played against each other, but they don't really know each other. Still, he's a familiar face in a crowd of people he doesn't know, someone he can actually talk to. Pablo likes him, Kun knows, wants Kun to like him too. It's important to him, though he'd never say, for them to get along. 

Silva's the only one of his teammates he'd ever mentioned by name when he'd talked about City with Kun. Not too much, just a remark or two, here and there, how he thought they'd get along and once he'd started to say, "And Silva, if you come, you two together, playing, it would be--" Then he'd stopped, like he'd pushed too far. 

He'd never asked Kun to come, never pressured him one way or the other. Didn't talk about it unless Kun asked first. He'd spoken with clear fondness, a smile on his face, and Kun'd never doubted that his affection for City and Manchester were genuine. 

They hadn't talked about Carlos, not once, and Kun'd never asked Carlos about Manchester. 

When they'd said goodbye, after the Copa, Pablo'd hugged Kun close and told him to do what was best for him, what made him happy, and he hadn't said anything about City. In the end, Kun'd done what he could, made the best choice circumstances allowed him to make. However it works out, at least Pablo's here. 

Silva smiles as they approach him. "Silva, of course," Pablo says, reaching out to ruffle Silva's hair. Silva scrunches up his face and bats at Pablo's hand. "You've met." Pablo pats Silva's cheek. "Say hello, eh?" 

"Hello," Silva says. He smiles and holds out his hand. "Welcome."

Kun takes his hand. "Thanks." He tries to remember if he's ever really talked to Silva before. He's not sure he has. 

Silva leans in and hugs him. He pulls back before Kun can react and return the gesture. "It is good to have you here."

"It is good to be here." He tries to sound as sincere as Silva had but he's not sure he succeeds.

Silva's smile doesn't waver. "Things are going well so far?" 

Something catches Pablo's attention and he interrupts before Kun can answer, "I've got to, you--I'm leaving you with Silva. He'll look after you, eh Silva?" It's pointless, telling Pablo he doesn't need looking after; Pablo believes everyone needs looking after. 

Silva smiles, like he knows this about Pablo, and says, "Of course." When Pablo's gone, he shakes his head. "He always--has he aways been that way?" 

Kun laughs. "Yes. Always. Since we were young."

Silva laughs with him for a moment and then says, more seriously, "He is, when I came here, he was, I was glad he was--and for you--" 

Kun nods. "Yes. It is nice. I--" He almost keeps going, almost tells Silva about the conversations he'd had with Pablo about coming here. Instead, he says, "I'm glad he's here. He is a good friend."

"Yes." Someone clatters in between them. It's the keeper, Hart. He says something to Silva that makes him laugh and roll his eyes. Hart smiles and drapes his arm around Silva's shoulders. "This," Silva says, with a long-suffering air, "is Joe." Hart waves. "He says I should share you with the rest of them."

"Hello," Kun says carefully, "nice to ah--" He can't remember the rest. He looks at Silva. "Meet you, how do you say it in English?"

It takes Silva a second. "Meet you," he says. Before Kun can repeat the phrase, Hart laughs and says something to Silva. Silva shoves him away. 

Hart seems to take that in stride. He offers his hand to Kun. "Nice to meet you too." Kun shakes his hand and smiles. Hart smacks his shoulder and says something else. Then he's gone, striding away.

Kun looks questioningly at Silva. "He says," Silva translates, "not to let me teach you English."

"Why?" he asks. 

Silva pouts. "Joe says because my English is, well, it's very bad."

"Better than mine," Kun says.

Silva smiles, quick and sharp, and says, "True."

It startles a laugh out of Kun. "Hey!" he says and gives Silva a shove.

Silva laughs and shrugs his shoulders. "It's true."

"For now," Kun retorts.

Silva stops laughing. "We'll see," he says, a glint of challenge in his expression. Kun's always liked a challenge. "Now," he adds," do you want to meet more of the guys?"

Kun would rather, he thinks, keep talking to Silva. It's easy and almost familiar. He knows that he can't, though, so he says, "Okay." 

Silva doesn't tuck him under his arm like Pablo had, but he keeps touching him. Little fleeting touches to his arm, the small of his back, guiding him along. He doesn't just introduce him to people, he leans in and offers little offhand asides about each person. They're funny, almost biting remarks but his affection for his-- _their_ \--teammates is clearly evident. More than once, Kun has to stop himself from laughing.

When Pablo catches up to them, he smiles broadly and says, "I see Silva's taking good care of you." Silva has his hand on Kun's back; he'd left it there after he'd guided Kun away from Barry. He drags his fingers along Kun's back, like he's fisting his shirt in his hand, then he drops his hand and moves away. 

"Of course," Kun says to Pablo, "very good care." He shifts closer to Silva and nudges him with his elbow. "He's telling me all kinds of interesting things about our teammates."

Pablo narrows his eyes. "Oh? Did he say anything about me?" 

Kun smiles. "Maybe."

Pablo flicks a glance toward Silva. "What did you say?"

Kun turns to Silva. "Should we tell him?" he says, without thinking, without knowing if Silva will get it, if he'll play along. 

Silva smiles slyly and Kun wants to smile back because that smile tells him that Silva gets it, that he wants to play with Kun. "Oh," Silva says, "I'm not sure..."

Kun wants to laugh. "Yeah, maybe not," he says, "wouldn't want to embarrass him." He can't keep up the pretense and he starts to laugh. Silva does too, leaning into Kun as he does. Kun wraps his arm around his waist and pulls him closer.

Pablo puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head. "I shouldn't have left you two alone." Kun laughs harder and thinks he's glad that Pablo had.

*

Kun wants to play. In this new, unfamiliar place, football is the only thing he's sure of, the only thing that isn't shifting under his feet. 

He's not fit though, and it's driving him crazy. People keep saying things like _soon_ and _don't worry, just get fit._ They don't even really say them to him. They talk around him, using words he doesn't understand and then someone, sometimes Pablo but usually one of the club's interpreters, tells him what's been said, what's been decided for him. 

The mister talks to him, explains that, soon, once they're sure he's ready, then he can play. He talks to Kun in Italian, so he can understand him without the interpreter. He seems almost sympathetic and Kun thinks he sees some of his own frustration echoed in his expression. Kun wonders how much he misses playing. 

He's sure the mister's reassurances were supposed to put him at ease but they don't. He wants to play. The pain in his feet, it's nothing, he can play through it. It's like an itch under his skin, this need to play, to be out there, to see if the little sparks of something between himself and his teammates in training will ignite into something spectacular on the pitch. There's fear too, chasing him, always just behind him. What if it doesn't work? What if coming here was a mistake? If he could only play, he thinks, it would all be fine. 

He tries to explain to Pablo but Pablo laughs, wraps his arm around his shoulders and says, "Don't worry. You'll be fine. Just relax and soon you can play."

He sits next to Silva in the sun in Dublin and watches his new team win and all he thinks is he wants to play, not to watch. Silva doesn't say much. He watches, like Kun watches, like he wishes he was out there playing. "I want," Kun finds himself saying as the final whistle blows, "to--" He stops himself, curling his fingers, digging his nails into his palm. 

Silva taps the back of his hand, then runs his fingers along his knuckles. "I know." That's all he says. He doesn't say _soon_ or try to placate him. 

Silva plays the next day but Kun's still stuck watching. That's almost worse, watching Silva play, because he wants to play with Silva--his other new teammates too, but especially Silva. He watches his passing, his movement, and he knows that they can link up well and do amazing things together on the pitch. 

They win without him. When he sees Silva afterwards, he says, "Very nice."

Silva smiles. "Thank you." He pauses. "When you play, it will be even better." He says it softly, without artifice; he seems to really believe it.

"Yes," Kun says, "I hope--"

Silva touches his side, spreads his hand over Kun's ribs and taps his thumb against Kun's chest. "I know," he says simply, and smiles. It's reassuring, the feel of Silva's hand on him, the surety in his voice, though Kun's not exactly sure why.

They go back to Manchester. Manchester hardly seems like a real place. For him, right now, Manchester is two places, the training ground and the hotel. They don't stay long. They go to London, to play United. 

Kun finally-- _finally_ \--makes the bench. The mister pulls him aside, though, and says, "You will not play, though, not today. Soon." 

They lose and Kun can't help but think, _if only_. 

They're mad, his teammates, frustrated, even though the game doesn't really mean anything. He likes that, likes their deep, fierce determination to win. 

He looks for Silva. He finds him sitting alone in the corner of the dressing room. Johnson catches Kun's arm. "Mate," he says, and then, Kun thinks, "I wouldn't," but he can't be sure. 

He keeps going. He stops right in front of Silva and waits until he looks up. He can see why Johnson'd said what he said. He puts his hand on Silva's shoulder. "Next time," he says carefully, "we'll beat them."

Silva stares up at him for a moment, his eyes dark and blank, then he reaches up and wraps his hand around Kun's wrist. "Yes--" he squeezes hard, almost too hard-- " _we_ will." Kun smiles, and to his delight Silva smiles back, determined and fierce and sharply beautiful.

They go back to Manchester. He thinks he's starting to recognize little bits of it here and there. He asks Silva about what this is and that is but Silva shrugs and tells him to ask Pablo. He does and Pablo fills his head up with so much information he has to tell him to stop. It's too much, too fast. 

The first game of the season comes and he wants to play so badly it's like an ache inside him. He's only on the bench. Stuck watching again. 

In the second half, the mister tells him to go warm up. He doesn't let himself think it means anything. He'd done that against United. It brings him closer to the rush and noise of the game. It's like a taunt to be so close and not be part of it. He goes back to the bench. He's barely sat down when they come and tell him he's going on.

He replaces de Jong, who gives him a brief hug and wishes him luck. He doesn't need luck, he needs to _play_. 

It's raining but he hardly notices. He focuses on fitting himself into the game. He's barely gotten into the game when the ball comes across and he puts it in the net, hitting the dirt as he does. He doesn't care. He's up on his feet and Silva's there, slamming hard into him and yelling something he doesn't really hear in his ear. Then the rest of his teammates are there, passing him around and saying things to him he doesn't understand. It doesn't matter though; the goal is all that matters.

The game starts again. He chases down the ball, knows that if he can just reach it, just keep it in play, that Silva's there behind him. He does, barely, sticks out his foot and hooks the ball back. Silva scores. He comes straight to Kun and hauls him close. He doesn't let go of him. Their teammates come, swarming them, but Silva holds onto him, his hand on Kun's neck, his shoulder. He doesn't mind. It seems right to stay there, at Silva's side, in Silva's grasp. 

He's not expecting the second goal. The game is already perfect. The best debut he could have imagined and the second goal, it is almost too much. When the final whistle blows, he's not ready for it to end. He wants to keep going, keep playing. 

Silva finds him in the dressing room. He's smiling. He hugs him tight. "See," he says, in Kun's ear, so close he can feel his mouth move, "I told you it would be better when you played." 

Kun hugs him back, pulls him as close as he can and tries to think of something to say. He can't find the right words so he just pushes his face into Silva's neck. His mouth glances against Silva's skin and for a second he can feel Silva's pulse, strong and steady, against his mouth. He pulls away and Silva's still smiling. "Thank you," he says, though he's not sure why. 

Silva pats his cheek and then lets him go. Kun wants to call him back, to keep him nearby, but then Pablo's there, grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking him and giving him this proud, beaming smile. 

*

Kun finds a place to live--well, someone finds him some places and he picks one. The house, though, mostly feels like another, albeit larger, hotel room. He thought maybe having it would make it feel more like he's in Manchester to stay but it doesn't.

He's starting to learn Manchester, though, recognize little pieces of it, mostly the parts he sees on his way to Carrington and the stadium. He lets Pablo take him out and show him around. It's nice to watch Pablo talk about Manchester. His enthusiasm is catching, and while he's with Pablo Manchester seems like a nice place to be. Without Pablo, though, it's still just a new and confusing place.

He begins to apply himself in earnest to learning English. The club finds him someone to tutor him. She's patient and Kun tries his best but he learns slowly. He wants to learn, to be able to communicate with his teammates. In the meantime, though, he's stuck with interpreters. It's frustrating. Everything takes twice as long. 

It's easier in training and in the dressing room. Pablo's there and Carlos and Silva and Yaya. They help him out. Pablo's the best at it, the most patient, and he tries to teach Kun at the same time. Silva's the worst at it, worse even than Carlos. Sometimes, when Kun asks him to translate something, Silva will shrug and say, "Ask Pablo." 

Finally Kun asks, exasperated, "How do you not know?"

Silva shrugs again. "I just don't." He doesn't seem especially bothered. 

"Hart was right," Kun says, giving him a little shove, "your English, it is very bad." 

Silva laughs. "Maybe. It's still better than yours." 

"Yeah. Yeah," Kun says and leaves Silva, who's still laughing, to go find Pablo and get a translation. 

He complains about how unhelpful Silva is and Pablo laughs. "He stopped, you know?"

"Stopped what?"

"The lessons, he gave them up." 

"He what?"

Pablo smiles. "He stopped."

"Why?"

Pablo shrugs. "Who knows."

For all that, though, Silva seems to do just fine. He always seems to know what's going on in training and in the dressing room. Kun watches him talk and laugh with their teammates without a problem. Even with the ones whose accents make the words Kun already knows in English incomprehensible. 

Kun asks him. "How did you learn, if you didn't--without the tutoring?"

"Pablo told you." It's not a question. He doesn't sound exactly happy.

"Yes." He almost asks why Silva stopped but something about the downward curve of his mouth and the look in his eyes stops him.

Silva looks away and shrugs. "I learned, you know, in the dressing room, around, from the others. It is easier."

"Really?"

Silva looks back. "Yes. Adam, the others, they helped me and I can--I know enough."

"Not enough," he says with a smile, "to translate for me."

Silva shoves him. "Learn and you won't need me to translate."

"I will," he retorts, "just watch."

He doesn't, though, not really. He learns words and phrases. He applies himself to his lessons but his progress is frustratingly slow. He complains to his tutor and she says that he needs to practice, to hear English more and try to use it in daily conversation. The only people he sees often who speak English are his teammates. 

It's easy, though, to use Spanish around them because there's always someone there to translate. Someone (Pablo claims it was him but so does de Jong) comes up with the idea of a fine system. His teammates go along with it with goodnatured humor. They also spend a lot of time laughing at him because, even with the fine system, he can never remember to try and use English.

Silva ignores the whole thing and speaks to him exclusively in Spanish. Every time Kun points out that now he owes him money, he shrugs and says, "Then I owe you." Part of him is glad of Silva's willful disregard of the system. He doesn't want to complicate their interactions, doesn't want anything to get in the way of their easy rapport. 

Also, Silva helps him cheat. That's, maybe, his favorite part. He likes the way Silva sidles close and slips his arm around Kun's waist or casually grabs ahold of Kun's shirt and leans in to whisper in his ear. Sometimes he translates and sometimes he tells him the right English phrase. On one very memorable occasion, he tells him the _wrong_ English phrase. He's lucky that de Jong has a sense of humor. 

Pablo catches them at it and he scolds them, hands on his hips, a throughly disgruntled look on his face. Kun's a bit abashed, he never wants to let Pablo down, but Silva gives Pablo a wickedly unrepentant smile and says, "What's the problem?" At which point Pablo holds up his hands and stomps off muttering something about how he should have known this would happen.

"That," Kun says, leaning into Silva's side, "wasn't very nice."

Silva smiles another brilliant, unrepentant smile and says, leaning close and whispering in his ear, "I know," and laughs.

The system breaks down after that but it hardly matters because now that he's started talking to his teammates he's picking up more and more of what they say. He's still working on it, still trying to figure English out, but it's a start. 

*

Kun can never predict when Leo will call, but when he calls after the Wigan game, he's surprised. They've just seen each other. "A hat-trick, huh?" Leo says instead of saying hello.

"You saw?"

"'Course," Leo says easily, like he doesn't understand why Kun's asking, like he thinks the answer should be obvious. "It was a good game."

"Yeah," Kun says, "not bad."

"You're playing well." He says it with plain matter-of-factness as if he never expected anything else. The confidence that Leo has in him never ceases to stagger him. 

"I," he says, "yeah, I guess."

"You are," Leo says more forcefully. He pauses, then he adds, "You and Silva, you link up well."

"Yeah, he's--he's great, playing with him, it's--it's amazing." It's true. He's pretty sure it's only going to get more amazing. "But," he adds, "not--" He stops. Not like with you. He doesn't say it. He doesn't have to. Leo knows. 

"Yeah," Leo says softly. He's quiet for a moment then he says, "Villa talks about him sometimes." 

"Oh?" Kun says. Silva never talks about Villa or Valencia. All the things Kun knows about Silva are from the here and now. He doesn't know Silva's past. Silva doesn't volunteer it and Kun doesn't ask. 

"Yeah," Leo says. Kun was expecting more, for Leo to repeat whatever Villa had said but he doesn't.

"He's--he's been really great, you know, to me, helped me, and he's--he's--"

"Kun," Leo says, interrupting, "Kun you--" He stops.

"What?" Kun says, trying not to snap.

"You like him."

He hadn't thought of it--of Silva--that way. Not until Leo says it with that little knowing edge in his voice "I," Kun stutters, stumbling over his words, "yeah, of course, I mean--" Now he's thinking it, caught by the idea of it, thinking of how he seeks out Silva, gets as close to him as he can as often as he can. It's easy, being around Silva, who seems so familiar in a crowd of unfamiliar people and places. More than that, he likes talking to him, being around him. And playing with him, that's amazing. He'd never considered more, except maybe he had; maybe he'd noticed the flash of Silva's smile, the curve of his mouth. Maybe he seeks out Silva's touch, touches him in return, as often as he can. He doesn't think about it, not really, he just does it. It seems natural; he doesn't do it deliberately. 

"You like him," Leo says again. Kun can't see him but he knows he's just nodded once, like he does when he's decided something. Leo never changes his mind after he's decided something. It doesn't mean Kun has to let him know if he's right, not when Kun's not quite sure he is, not sure of anything about it now. 

"He's been helping me," he says, still unsettled, "that's all, him and Pablo and everyone."

"Okay," Leo says but Kun knows he hasn't changed his mind. "I'm glad that you have people helping you and--it's good." 

"Yeah," Kun says, "it is, it's really good." 

*

Kun's alone in the house. It's the first time, since he arrived in Manchester, that he's not surrounded by family and friends. He feels oddly adrift. He doesn't know what to do with himself. The house still doesn't feel like a home and being alone in it exacerbates its blank, unwelcoming sterility. It makes him restless. He wants to leave, to go out and do something, anything, as long as he doesn't have to stay in the empty house. He doesn't know where to go, though, still doesn't know Manchester really at all. He's trapped. 

He fiddles with his phone, thinks about calling Pablo. He skips past Pablo's number, though, and stares at Silva's. Silva had stolen his phone away right after they met and put his number in. "If you need anything," he'd said with a shrug, "or, you know..." Kun's never used it. He skims past it, looks at all the other numbers he could call. He scrolls back to Pablo's number and stares at it. He knows, if he calls, Pablo will come. He wants--he's not sure what, but not Pablo's particular brand of solicitousness. He goes back to Silva's number. He has no idea what will happen if he calls Silva. He wants to find out. He hits call. 

There's a lot of noise when Silva answers, music and shouting. "Hello?"

"Silva?"

"Kun? Is that--is that you?" Kun can barely hear him.

"Yes! Yes, it's me." 

"Hi!" Silva says. He seems surprised, though it's hard to tell with all the noise. "How are you? Did you, I mean, is everything okay?"

Kun feels silly. He shouldn't have called. "No! No, everything's fine, I just, never mind, I'll just--"

"Wait! Don't," some of the noise is gone and he can hear Silva more clearly, "Tell me." 

Kun doesn't know what to say, really isn't quite sure why he'd called to begin with. "I just, just wondered if maybe, I wanted to go out, leave the house, you know, but I don't know where to go and I thought you, but you're--you're already, I'll just--"

"Okay," Silva says, "all right."

"No! No, you're--"

Silva cuts him off. "Tell me your address. I'll come and we can--tell me." Kun thinks he ought to protest more, ought to let Silva go back to whatever he's doing. Instead he gives Silva his address. "I'll be there soon," Silva says and hangs up before Kun can respond.

It takes a while for Silva to get there. Calling Silva somehow has made his restlessness worse. It's not about being trapped inside, though, not anymore. He's nervous about Silva and he doesn't know why. There's no reason to be. 

The doorbell rings and he jumps. When he opens the door, Silva smiles. He's dressed to go out. Kun's--well, he isn't. He's not even wearing shoes. "Hi," Silva says.

"Hello. You--you found it all right?"

Silva nods. "Yes, of course." 

They just stand there for a moment until Kun realizes he's being horribly rude. "Come in, please, c'mon."

Silva steps inside, brushing past Kun. "Joe and Adam, they say hello." 

"What? You were, you shouldn't have come, I'm sorry I--"

Silva laughs softly. "They're fine without me." He spins around, looking at the house. "This is nice." 

Kun supposes it is. He doesn't see it. "Yes," he says anyway, "Do you want? Come on, we can sit."

After they sit down, Silva says, "Joe and Adam, they said I should bring you back with me and we could," he waves his hand, "you know." 

Kun thinks of the raucous music he'd heard earlier, when he'd had Silva on the phone. He thinks of how it would be, of Silva's really awful translating, all the back and forth required just to be understood, to understand. He thinks of how easy the three of them are together, of how Silva fits in with them in a way Kun doesn't altogether understand. He's not sure he wants to share Silva. Doesn't want to be on the outside looking in. Not tonight, not with Silva. 

Silva leans forward. "We don't have to. We can do something else." He smiles. "Whatever you want." 

It's odd, but with Silva in the house, he almost doesn't want to leave. Silva's presence livens up the house, makes it seem warmer, more welcoming. "I don't know," he says, "I just, I wanted to go somewhere but I didn't know--" He shrugs.

Silva smiles. "I know. It's different, hard to--" He shrugs. "We can go out, get something to eat, or something?" 

That sounds okay. "What about Hart and Johnson?"

Silva makes a dismissive gesture. "Forget them, whatever you want."

He wants Silva to stay here with him. He wants Silva to kick off his shoes and curl up on his sofa and stay here with him. He can't ask for that, though, not when he's already dragged Silva away from what he was doing, not when he's already said he wants to go somewhere. "Maybe," he says, "something to eat would be nice. Take me somewhere you like."

Silva smiles easily. "Okay." He looks Kun over. "You might want to put on some shoes first." 

Kun looks down. "Should I--I could change?"

"No," Silva says, "you look fine, but shoes, okay?"

"Right. I'll just, wait here." 

Silva slouches back onto the sofa. "Okay."

He thinks about changing anyway but he doesn't. He just finds some shoes and puts them on. He grabs a jacket and goes back to Silva. He's leaning back on the sofa. His eyes are closed. "Silva?" he says softly. 

Silva sits up. "Ready?"

"We don't," Kun says, "If you're--"

Silva stands. "Let's go."

It's chilly outside, not cold, but Kun's still glad he has the jacket. 

"So," Kun says, once they're inside the car, "where are you taking me?"

"You'll see," Silva says and starts the car. 

"You know your way around?" Kun asks.

Silva laughs. "No, not really, I," he presses a few buttons on the dashboard, "GPS."

Kun laughs. "Still?"

"It's," Silva says, "there's too much to, you know, and I don't--I don't really go out much." His tone is matter of fact and there's no trace of regret in his voice about the fact that his temporary city is still a mystery him. He'll leave one day, Kun thinks, and he won't look back, won't keep the map--the places--of Manchester in his head. He's not like Pablo, curious about his new home, _attached_. Kun doesn't know how Pablo does it, doesn't understand why. So far, the only things he's found in Manchester worth getting attached to are people. He watches Manchester slip by as they drive and thinks maybe he's more like Silva than Pablo. 

"Do you ever get lost?" he asks.

"Sometimes," Silva says, "not as much as I used to." He pauses. "You'll learn to find your way."

Kun stares out the window. "Yeah, I guess I will." After that, they ride in silence, broken only by the mechanically melodic voice of the GPS. 

When they stop, they're in a part of Manchester Kun doesn't recognize. Once they're out of the car, he says, "I've never been here." 

Silva smiles and doesn't say, _of course not, you've never been to most of Manchester._ "Come on," he says. He reaches out, like he's going to put his hand on Kun's back and guide him forward but then he pulls it back. 

The restaurant Silva leads him into is small and relatively unassuming. There's some staring when they walk in but nothing else. Once they're seated, Kun asks, "How'd you find this place?"

Silva shrugs. "I didn't. My brother did." 

Kun knows that Silva's family is here with him, Pablo told him, but Silva doesn't talk about them much. He doesn't really talk about anything too personal. Kun forgets sometimes, that he hasn't really known Silva that long, that there's no compelling reason for Silva to tell him anything at all personal. "Oh?" he says, "Your brother?"

"Yeah," Silva says, "the food is good, Nando says--" He shrugs again. "It's good." 

"Okay," Kun says and stares down at the menu. He can't read it. Silva tries to translate but that doesn't go well. Finally, Kun gives up and says, "Order for me, okay?" 

Silva smiles slightly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay." 

The server comes. Kun can't understand him or what Silva says to him. He can't understand any of the people talking around them. Silva is the only person here he can understand. It's disconcerting and yet he almost doesn't mind, Silva's the only person here he really has any interest in. 

"What did you order for me?"

Silva smiles. "You'll see."

"It had better be good."

"Don't worry. All the food here is good."

The food is good. While they eat, Kun asks Silva, tentatively at first, about his family. Silva doesn't seem to mind his questions and talks happily about his parents and his siblings. It's nice to talk about something besides football or their teammates or Kun's on-going struggles with English. 

When they're done, Kun argues with Silva until he relents and lets him pay. Silva's still frowning when he finally gives in, like even losing a tiny, meaningless argument with Kun is some kind of affront. Kun wants to laugh. He doesn't but he can't stop his smile. Silva's frown deepens. "What?"

Kun laughs. "Nothing." Silva scowls. "C'mon," Kun says, standing up from the table "next time, you can buy me dinner."

Silva gets up. "Next time?" 

"Yeah," Kun says. He moves closer to Silva and puts his hand high on his back, right between his shoulder blades, "Next time."

"Okay," Silva says with a smile, "next time." 

The ride back to Kun's house is quiet, like the ride there. It's a nice, comfortable quiet though, not an awkward quiet. When they arrive, Kun puts his hand on Silva's knee. "Come inside." He's not sure what he's asking for but he knows he's not ready to be alone. 

"Why?" Silva's voice is hushed and he sounds wary. 

"I don't," Kun falters, "I don't know, but would you--"

Silva settles his hand over Kun's. He rests it there, aligns it perfectly with Kun's. His palm to the back of Kun's hand, his fingers over Kun's. Kun waits for him to say something: maybe the answer to what he's asking for will be there in what Silva says. Silva picks his hand up and moves it away. "No." he says with quiet firmness, "not tonight."

"Oh," Kun says, "right," quickly, fighting back his disappointment, "Okay, that's, okay, thanks, you know for--"

"Thank you for dinner," Silva says, "I'll see you in training."

Kun reaches for the door. "Yeah, of course."

He goes back into his empty house. It's chilly in the house. He stands in the dark entranceway and thinks about the warmth of Silva's hand on top of his. 

He goes upstairs without turning on the lights. He doesn't want to look at his empty, perfectly decorated not-home. 

*

Kun's been expecting the weather to turn colder. Still, when the first cold morning comes, he's surprised. It's wet too, not quite rain but a fine mist; you don't notice it at first but it gets worse the longer you stand in it.

When he steps outside to go to training, he stands for a moment in the cold and wet. He closes his eyes and thinks of the brightness of the sun at home, of the warmth of it on his skin. For a moment, he can almost see the sun and for a split second he's warm, but then he opens his eyes and everything is gray and misty. He shivers. He wraps his arms around his chest, desperate for extra warmth, and hurries towards his car. In the car, he turns the heat up as high as it will go, and by the time he reaches Carrington he's sweating but he doesn't turn down the heat. 

The short walk from his car is enough for the damp chill in the air to sink back into him. He rubs his hands over his arms. Edin comes in behind him and laughs. "Welcome to Manchester." He smacks Kun's back and smiles. He says something else but Kun doesn't catch it. He loops his arm around Kun's neck and hauls him close. He's very warm and Kun pushes closer. Edin laughs again. "Better?"

Kun nods and wraps his arm around Edin's waist. "Thank you." Edin squeezes his shoulders and says something Kun can't quite understand but he thinks is about getting changed for training. He lets Edin drag him down the corridor towards the dressing room.

Kun's on the training pitch before he realizes he forgot his gloves. There's no time to go back. He rubs his already cold hands together and brings them to his mouth. The heat from his breath isn't enough. Silva nudges him. "Where are your gloves?"

Kun shrugs. "Forgot." He rubs his hands together a bit faster, hoping it will help.

Silva rolls his eyes. "That's not going to help, here." He reaches out and wraps his hands around Kun's. His gloves are a bit damp but his hands are warm around Kun's. "Better?"

"Yes."

Silva smiles and squeezes Kun's hands. "Good." The mister calls out something. "Come on," Silva says, "we should--" He lets go of Kun's hands.

The shock of the cold air startles him. "Oh."

Silva glances back. "You know," he says, "maybe," and he turns around and starts pulling off one of his gloves. "Here, have these." He holds out the glove.

"I couldn't," Kun says, pushing it back towards him, "you need--"

Silva cuts him off. "I'm used to it," he says, catching Kun's wrist, "you need them more." He starts pulling the glove over Kun's hand before Kun can protest further. The glove is warm from Silva's hand. Silva tugs the glove the rest of the way down and taps Kun's wrist. "There." He pulls off his other glove and reaches for Kun's other hand.

"You don't," Kun says, "really, I'll be--"

Silva snorts. "Your hands are freezing." He grabs Kun's wrist. "Come on." 

Kun pulls his wrist away. "I can." 

Silva's mouth twists. It's not quite a smile. "Right. Of course." He hands Kun the other glove. "Here." He turns away before Kun can pull it on. He jams it on and hurries to catch up to him. 

After training, in the warmth of the dressing room, Kun pulls the gloves off first. He maneuvers his way through the room until he reaches Silva. He's bent over, undoing the laces on his boot. Johnson's slouched next to him. He's talking but Kun can't understand a word of it. Whatever he says, it makes Silva laugh.

"Hey, Agüero," Johnson says, straightening up. 

"Johnson."

Johnson pokes Kun's chest. "Adam, 'kay," he says with offhanded friendliness, "or Johno, all right?" 

"All right," Kun says carefully, trying to mimic Johnson's pronunciation. 

Johnson smiles. "Not bad." He smacks Kun's shoulder. "Not bad." He turns and kicks Silva's foot. "I'm going."

Silva straightens up and scowls at Johnson. "Do not," he says and shoves him. 

Johnson laughs. "Yeah, yeah, see ya, 'kay?" He nods at Kun. "Agüero." Then he's gone, loping off through the dressing room. 

"I," Kun says. He holds out the gloves. "Here. Thank you." 

Silva smiles. "Oh, right." He takes the gloves. His fingers brush against Kun's. They're ice cold. 

"Your hands," Kun says, and without thinking he wraps Silva's hands up in his own. "They're--" 

Silva drops the gloves. "It's not--"

Kun shifts his grip, tries to cover as much of Silva's hands as he can. "Your hands are freezing." Silva's hands are smaller than his, his fingers lithe and almost delicate. He's never noticed that before, not earlier when Silva'd had his hands wrapped around his, not that night in Silva's car. 

"It's okay," Silva says, trying to tug his hands away, "they'll, I'll--" 

Kun tightens his grip. Silva's hands are still chilled. He steps closer, bringing their entangled hands to his chest, thinking it'll bring more heat, faster. Silva's eyes widen and he ducks his head. His hands flutter inside Kun's but he doesn't try to pull away again. "Thank you," Kun says softly, "for the gloves."

Silva shrugs. "You were cold," he says, without looking up.

"So," Kun says, squeezing his hands, "were you. Thank you."

Silva looks up. "Not anymore." There's a secret in his smile and Kun wants to pull him closer and make him whisper it in his ear. Silva carefully disentangles his hands from Kun's. "Thank you," he says. Kun's suddenly very warm-- _hot_ \--the chill that's seeped its way into his bones is gone. Silva pats Kun's chest. "Thank you," he says again, then he turns back around and leans down to unlace his other boot. 

Kun watches his hands as he undoes the laces. He's nimble and deft, no wasted movements, like he is on the pitch. He looks away before he can think about what else Silva might touch that way, and notices the gloves on the floor. He bends down and picks them up. He puts them on the bench next to Silva. He skims his hand down Silva's back. "Thanks."

When he goes back out into the cold and wet, he shoves his hands into pockets and thinks of Silva's hands warming in his. 

The next day, when Kun arrives at Carrington, he finds Silva leaning next to his cubicle, a wide smile on his face. "What?" Kun asks suspiciously. 

Silva's smile widens. "I got you something."

"What?"

Silva holds out a pair of gloves still in the packaging. "Here. To keep your hands warm."

"You know, " Kun says, "right, that they give us gloves."

Silva smacks him with the gloves. "I know. Where do you think I got these?"

Kun snatches the gloves. "Some present. You didn't even get it for me yourself."

Silva laughs. "I did. I went and got them from Chappy myself."

"That's not--" Kun shakes his head. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Silva says, pushing off the wall. "Don't forget," he says in Kun's ear, as he passes him, "to wear them. I want you to stay warm."

Later, as he heads out the door, he pulls on the gloves and smiles. "Why," Pablo says exasperatedly, "are you smiling? It's too cold for smiling."

"Maybe," he says, "I like the cold."

Pablo snorts. "Sure. You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think," he says, leaning close, "that you like something else."

Kun shoves him away. "No! No, it is definitely the cold, the beautiful Manchester weather, that's what I like."

Pablo stares at him for a moment then he shakes his head. "Of course, the beautiful Manchester weather, of course!" He throws up his hands and stomps off. 

"What," Silva says, right in his ear, startling him, "did you do to Pablo?"

Kun smiles. "Oh, nothing."

Silva quirks an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Really," Kun says. He holds up his hands, looking for a distraction. "Look, I remembered."

Silva's expression softens. "Good," he says, lightly touching the back of Kun's hand. "Your hands are warm?"

"Yes." He almost turns his hand and takes Silva's, asks how his hands are, if they're cold. Instead he says, "Now the rest of me..." He shudders. "Ah, this weather, I don't know if, it is.."

Silva shrugs. "You get used to it." He's a lousy liar.

"Really?" 

Silva smiles ruefully. "Not really, no." He grabs Kun's arm. "Come on. They'll start without us." Kun lets him tug him along and thinks he's getting used other things, though, like the way Silva smiles at him, the way it feels to play with him, with all his teammates. He might even be starting to get used to Manchester. 

Kun doesn't remember the moments after the goal. He barely remembers the goal itself. It's all a fantastical blur. His teammates are there on all sides of him but he can't tell one from the other. 

The game starts again and then stops just as quickly. He's still elated, from the goal--their _win_ \--and he wants Silva, wants to see him, to put his hands on him and share this incredible feeling with him. Everyone he passes comes and hugs him, says things to him, but he smiles at them and keeps looking for Silva.

He finds him with Pablo, wrapped in Pablo's arms. It's perfect, the two people he wants to see most, right there, together. Silva reaches out for him right away, wrapping his arm around his neck and pulling him close. Kun pushes even closer, puts his hands on him, because he needs to be closer, to be touching more of him. Pablo puts his arm across his back but he barely notices. 

He leans in and whispers in Silva's ear, "Can you believe it?" He wants to say something else. If Pablo wasn't _right there_ , maybe he would. Maybe he'd say, _come home with me, please, come home with me and let me put my mouth all over you and lick my way across your skin._ He wants to, wants to put his mouth on Silva right now, on his neck, just under his chin, press it there, open, so he can lick across Silva's pulse and taste him, feel the beat of his heart under his tongue. Wants to see if his heart's racing the way Kun's is, exhilarated from the win, the game, from being close to Silva.

Silva laughs and holds up his hands. "It is--it is--" Pablo cuts him off, pulls him close, and Kun too, squeezing them tight. 

He tries to stay by Silva's side but Hart comes along and snatches him close. He shouts in Kun's ear. He even understands most of what he says. When Hart lets him go, Silva's gone.

Kun spots him at the top of the tunnel. He starts towards him but, when he recognizes the Villarreal player he's talking to, he stops. Marchena has his hand on Silva's shoulder and he's leaning close to him, saying something in his ear. Silva's hands are twisted together in front of him. He looks--Kun's not sure; his earlier happiness is gone and Kun can't quite tell what's taken its place. All he's sure of is that whatever's happening between Silva and Marchena, it's not the kind of thing you interrupt. 

He watches, though, watches Silva finally smile and hug Marchena. Silva buries his face in Marchena's chest. Marchena wraps his arms around him and rubs his hand up and down his back. He glances toward Kun and Kun looks away, embarrassed to be caught staring. He can't help looking back though. Silva pushes away from Marchena and walks down the tunnel. He doesn't look back. Kun tells himself it's not anything, not really; he knows they played together. 

He makes his way down the tunnel. He doesn't look at the Villarreal players still in the tunnel. He doesn't really know any of them. Marchena's among them but he doesn't look at him. He's a bit distracted, thinking of finding Silva, thinking of maybe saying the things he couldn't say before in front of Pablo, seeing what happens. He hums a little, sings a few lines from the last song he heard before the game. 

He's not looking or really paying attention but suddenly there's a Villarreal player in his face shouting and shoving at him. He stumbles back. He might not know what's going on but he's not going to be pushed around. He steps forward and shoves back.

It devolves quickly, gets out of control. "What do you think you're doing?" Marchena says as he jostles his way between them. 

"What do _I_ \--" Kun snaps then Kompany's there too, catching Kun and hauling him back. 

The Villarreal players come forward but Lescott's there and Hart and Kolarov, getting between them and Kun. 

"Enough," Kompany says, shepherding Kun towards the dressing room.

"I didn't," Kun says, "he," forgetting that Kompany can't understand him. 

Kompany doesn't let go of him until they're inside the dressing room. "All right?" he says, clasping Kun's shoulder and bending down to look him in the eye.

Kun nods. "Yes," he fumbles around for the right English words, "I, no, I did--did not--he, ah, he is--he--" 

Kompany squeezes his shoulder. "I know," he says, "I saw. Don't worry about it, okay?" Kun nods. Kompany ruffles his hair. "Good," he says, lightly cuffing the side Kun's head, "Good."

As soon as he moves away, Pablo's there. He puts his hands on Kun's shoulders. "What happened?" he asks.

"I don't," Kun says, "I'm not, I don't know."

Pablo frowns. "Are you okay?" 

Kun shrugs off his hands. "I'm fine. It's nothing." Pablo looks like he wants to argue the point but Kun pushes past him. 

He catches Silva's eye but Silva looks away. Kun tells himself it doesn't matter but it _does_. He wants to go and get in Silva's face and say, _you're my teammate, mine, why're you looking at me like I did something wrong?_ It's unfair, he knows it, knows how he's felt when players, even his own teammates, have gone after Leo, but still he can't shake the desire to have all of Silva's focus, his complete loyalty. 

He turns his back on Silva and gets ready to go shower. When he comes back, Silva's gone.

Hart grabs him as he goes past him. "You starting fights now, huh?" He says it with a smile and Kun's pretty sure he's teasing. 

"I," he stammers, "he did, I no--" 

Hart pulls him against his side. "I know. I know. But we've got your back, yeah?" He sounds so sincere. This is what he'd wanted from Silva, this and so much _more_ , but it's nice to hear it from Hart. 

He smiles. "Yes?"

Hart squeezes his shoulders. "'Course we do."

"Thank you," Kun says.

"It's no bother, we're mates, yeah? It's what you do. Now," Hart shoves Kun away, "off with you. Go get dressed, 'kay?"

Silva calls him later and he thinks about not answering. In the end, he does. "Hello," he says and waits.

"Hello," Silva says and then nothing. They've never had a moment like this. Everything so far has been so easy between them. Now there's just an odd, uncomfortable silence. "How are you? Silva says finally.

"I'm fine. It wasn't--" He stops. "I'm fine." He hesitates then asks, "And you, how're you?" 

There's another long, uncomfortable pause. He forgets that, despite all the ways Silva seems so intimately familiar, in other ways he's still a stranger with a past Kun knows next to nothing about. "I'm fine," Silva says, but he doesn't sound it. 

Kun searches for something--anything--to say. "It must have been nice," he says, even though it's really the last thing he wants to think about, "to see Marchena, you ah.." It's the only thing he can think of to say. 

"Carlos?" Silva says abruptly. "Yes. That was nice." There's a terseness in his tone, a harshness that doesn't match his words.

"Do you miss," he almost says _him_ , "it, Valencia?"

"Of course," Silva says, his voice clipped and curt. It's barely an answer. "Don't you miss Atleti?" It's sharp, the question, almost an accusation. Kun thinks of how Silva is when they lose, prickly and sharp and unapproachable. This isn't quite that. This is anger layered over hurt.

Kun's not sure of the answer. He misses Madrid, sometimes, its familiarity, the sunshine, hearing Spanish all around him instead of the strange puzzle of English. He's not sure he misses the club. When he thinks of missing things, it's always home or his family. "I suppose," he says, "sometimes, but here, it's..." He wants to say good but it's not quite true. Parts of it are, his teammates-- _Silva_ \--the way they play, being close to Pablo, but the rest of it is still too foreign, still too bewildering. He's still trying to settle and he's uncomfortable with it. 

"Yes," Silva says, his tone softened, turned conciliatory, "I know." He pauses, and now the silence is not so fraught; it's almost comfortable. "Carlos," he says tentatively, "did he, was he the--" He stops.

"He," Kun starts to say.

"Never mind," Silva interrupts, "it's--it's not important."

"Okay," Kun says and lets it go.

"I'm--I'm sorry," Silva says softly. 

"Okay," Kun says again. 

"I should," Silva says, "I should let you go."

"Right," Kun says, "it's late, I should, I'll see you in training, and--good night." He hangs up while Silva's still saying goodbye. 

*

When Kun comes off, during the United game, touches Nasri's hands, he's certain that they're going win. Nothing's for sure in football but still he _knows_ they're going to win. Edin scores, then Silva, then Edin again and they do win. 

It's exhilarating and, for all his certainty, still unexpected. _What else_ , he thinks, _can we do?_ For the first time, coming to Manchester, signing for City, feels like it was the _right_ thing to do. Maybe he chose the _right_ team, the _right_ place. 

"I told you," he says, when he finds Silva, "I told you next time we'd win." 

Silva laughs, bright and joyous. "You did, didn't you?" He's swaying a bit. Kun catches his arm, thinking to steady him, but someone, Richards, hurtles past, bumping into Silva's back and sending him forward into Kun. 

Kun catches him as best he can. "Are you--" he says but Silva just buries his face against Kun's shoulder and laughs. He's all tangled up in Kun's arms. His jersey's ridden up and Kun's hand is flat against the bare skin of his back. It's as close as they've been since that moment after the Villarreal game. It's only been a few days but still, Kun's missed having him this close. 

Silva raises his head and smiles. "Thank you." He doesn't move away, out of Kun's arms, and that's fine. Kun's not ready for him to go. 

He rubs his thumb along Silva's spine. Silva shifts, presses closer, running his hands up Kun's chest. He's so close, smiling, eyes bright with joy. His skin is warm and satin soft under Kun's hand. He almost forgets where they are, almost turns his head and licks the upturned corner of his mouth--nips the lush curve of his lower lip. This isn't a return to their easy closeness, strained in recent days; this is something else, something sharp and electrifying and not at all easy and easy all at the same time. _Maybe I came to the right place_ , he thinks again, _for this, for football too, but also this_. 

"Kun," Silva says, low and warm like a promise, " _Kun._ " 

Before Kun can answer the moment's shattered by Johnson clattering into them. He slings an arm around Kun's shoulders and reaches out to ruffle Silva's hair. "How 'bout that then, eh lads?" He nudges his hip against Kun's. "Not bad, huh?" 

Silva pulls away, steps out of Kun's reach. He reaches up and fixes his hair. "No," he says, smiling at Johnson, "is not so bad." 

Johnson laughs and steps away from Kun to muss Silva's hair again. "Was fucking fantastic that was."

"Adam," Silva whines, batting at Johnson's hands, "do not--" They scuffle and talk, too rapidly for Kun to keep up. He tries not to resent it, the easy way they have together, the claim Johnson seems to have on him. He watches them bicker and tease and tussle with rough affection and resists the urge to snatch Silva back.

They never get back to the moment Johnson shattered. Instead, they go their separate ways and Kun's left to wonder, if Johnson hadn't arrived, what would have happened next? 

*

It's easy, the next time Kun's alone in the house, to call Silva and say, "You owe me dinner." 

Silva laughs and says, "Yes, I do."

"So come here and buy me dinner."

"Okay," Silva says, "I'll be right there," and hangs up. 

The first thing Silva says when he shows up is, "So, any idea where you want to go?"

"Yes," he says, and thanks to Pablo, who'd been thrilled when Kun'd asked him about places to go in Manchester, he does. Pablo'd even given him directions. 

"Do you want me to drive?" Silva asks.

"No, I know the way."

Silva tips his head to the side. "Really?" 

Kun shoves him. "Yes, really. I'm learning my way around, you know."

Silva shrugs. "Okay."

They get lost. Silva laughs and laughs. Finally Kun has to pull over because he's going in circles, getting nowhere. Silva's no help at all. "Stop laughing, asshole," he says, "and help me."

"I thought," Silva says, still laughing, "that you knew your way around?"

"Yeah, well," Kun says, a bit embarrassed, "I'm working on it. Do you know where we are?"

"No."

"What's your excuse?" Kun snaps, "You've been here longer and you still can't find your way."

Silva shrugs. "I can get to the places I want to go. Just use the GPS."

Kun would but he can't remember the address. They end up calling Pablo, who laughs at them for a long time before finally helping them. "It is not," he says, "a good idea, I think, for you two to go out in Manchester together. You will never find anything."

"That," Kun says, "is why we have you."

"Yes. Yes," Pablo says, "but you really should learn these things for yourselves."

"Good night," Kun says and hangs up before Pablo can respond.

"What did he say?" Silva asks. 

He tucks his phone back in his pocket. "That we shouldn't be allowed out together."

"Oh?" Silva says, startled and oddly wary, "Why?"

"Well," Kun says lightly, "look at us. We're totally lost." 

"True." He looks away from Kun. "Next time, if you like, Pablo, he--we can--"

"No," Kun says, interrupting, "I mean yes, maybe sometimes," he puts his hand on Silva's knee, "but I--I like, just this, I--"

Silva interrupts. "Me too, I--it's--" He lays his hand over Kun's. "This--it's--" Kun turns his hand up and threads his fingers through Silva's. He almost expects Silva to pull away but Silva squeezes his hand. "Kun?" 

Kun wishes he could see his face but in the shadowy darkness of the car he can't make it out. "Come back with me," he says, "to the house." 

"You don't," Silva says slowly, "want dinner?" He's still holding Kun's hand.

"No," Kun says, "please."

Silva doesn't say anything for what seems like a very long time. Kun waits, focuses on the warm solidity of Silva's hand in his. "This," Silva says with a strange hesitance, "it's really what you want?"

Kun squeezes his hand. "Yes."

"Okay. Let's go."

He has to let go of Silva's hand to start the car. Silva puts his hand on his knee. "Can you find your way back?" He runs his thumb along the outside of Kun's knee.

"I," Kun stammers, "I think so."

When they get back to the house, he knows he should wait, let Silva come in, offer to take his coat, but instead he pushes him right up against the door. "Silva."

"David," Silva says with an incongruous definitiveness, "you can--"

"I can," Kun interrupts, pushing closer, "what?"

Silva settles his hands on Kun's shoulders. "Anything you want."

Kun brushes his mouth across Silva's. "This," he says against the curve of Silva's smile, "can I?"

"Anything."

Even granted Silva's permission, he's slow and careful with the next kiss. Silva parts his lips under his, yielding, his mouth soft and pliant under his. It's an unexpected surrender. He wants to find out what else Silva will offer up, what else he'll let Kun take, what else he'll let Kun have. 

He wants to rush, to find out all at once, but he slows himself down. He keeps the kiss deliberate and unhurried. He wants all he can get, wants to savor it in case this is all he gets to have. 

Silva slides his hands along Kun's shoulders, twines his arms around his neck, and switches everything so fast it steals Kun's breath. He turns the kiss, makes it impatient and greedy and relentlessly demanding. He hooks his foot around Kun's leg and presses up into him, rubbing against him. Pleasure spirals through him like hot, electric sparks. 

They aren't close enough. He fumbles between them, clumsy in his haste, pushing up Silva's shirt, pressing his hands to bare, warm skin. He scrambles and pulls, drags Silva hard against him. Silva gasps into his mouth and nips, hard and sharp, at Kun's lower lip. "Kun, _Kun_." 

"I want," he says, pressing his mouth to Silva's cheek, kissing along his chin, licking just under his ear, dragging his mouth along the delicate skin of his throat. "I want." 

Silva tangles his fingers in his hair, pulls and twists, and pushes against him. "Anything."

"Upstairs," he says against his throat, "come, please, I--"

Silva runs his fingers across his nape, scraping his nails along his skin. "Okay, yes, _yes_ , I--"

Kun doesn't wait for him to finish. He pulls away--not too far, he can't go too far, not when Silva's just allowed him so close--and takes Silva's hand. "Come on, let's--" 

Silva smiles. He's horribly mussed. His shirt's pulled up, his jacket's half off his shoulder and his hair is wildly disheveled. Kun tugs on his hand. "Come on." They go stumbling up the stairs hand in hand. 

When they're done, Kun wants to hover close, to throw his leg over Silva's hip and tuck his face into Silva's neck. He wants to stay pressed close together, to slide his tongue along Silva's neck, taste sweat and that something else underneath that's just Silva. He wants to saturate himself with him. He contents himself with turning on his side and staring. Silva tips his head toward him and stares back. He doesn't say anything. He just smiles into his shoulder and lets Kun stare. 

Earlier he hadn't really looked at Silva. He'd been too busy touching him, too busy finally getting his hands, his mouth, on him, to really look. It had all been a rush of heat and sensation and even when he'd been buried inside him, he hadn't really looked. They'd had their mouths tangled together, kissing and gasping and biting their way through it. He wouldn't trade the dizzying, glorious rush of it, but now he wants to stare. To look at the wet, swollen curve of his mouth, the dip of his collarbone, the gently defined muscles of his stomach, the careless splay of his fingers over his chest.

His desire to touch him, though, is too strong to resist for long and he reaches out and lays his hand over his stomach, rests it there and watches it rise and fall with Silva's breath. "Why," he asks, thinking of that night in Silva's car, when he didn't quite know he wanted this but he'd asked anyway and how, when Silva'd said no, that had been the moment he'd known that _yes, he wanted this_ , "did you say no, you know, the first time I asked?"

"That," Silva says, "wasn't about me."

"What?" Kun pushes up so he can look down at Silva's face. "What do you mean?"

"You were alone," Silva says, looking away, "and looking for--it wasn't about me."

He wants to say it was, that it had been about Silva and his smile and the way they sometimes just fit together, just understand each other, but it wasn't. Silva's right. It was only partly wanting, only partly about Silva, the rest had been about loneliness and frustration, looking for something familiar in a foreign place.

"This," he says, rolling over onto Silva, settling himself between his thighs, "this," he kisses him, "it's about you. Okay?" Silva doesn't answer him, but he slides his arms around Kun's neck and kisses him back. 

*

He's not sure what happens but one minute he can put his foot on the ground and the next he can't. He tries but the pain is too much. He knows his ankle can't bear his weight. He's about to sit down, because he doesn't trust his balance, when Nasri comes up alongside him and takes his arm. He says something in Kun's ear but Kun's too focused on staying on his feet, too distracted by the pain, to put the effort into understanding him. 

"Kun?" When he hears Silva's voice, he pulls away from Nasri, even though he's all that's holding him up, and reaches blindly for Silva. "I need, Silva, I--" His fingers glance down Silva's chest, catching in his jersey. 

"I know," Silva says, "I know, just--" He grabs Kun's hand, takes it in his. Even though Nasri has a better hold on him, it's Silva he's trusting to keep him on his feet.

"They're, are they?"

Silva squeezes his hand. "They are," he says, his voice low and comforting, "just hold on, let Nasri--" 

Nasri shifts, bends down and lets Kun rest his arm on his back. He says something but Kun ignores it, doesn't try and understand it. Silva pulls away slightly, like he's going to let go of Kun's hand. "Don't. Please."

"Okay. Okay. I've--" He puts his other hand on Kun's arm, just above his elbow. "I'm--I--they're almost here, okay?" He doesn't let go of Kun's hand until the physios get there and take Kun from him and Nasri. 

Kun barely notices Nasri stepping away but he doesn't want to let go of Silva. Silva touches his back. "They've got you, okay? I'll--I'll see you soon." Then he's gone and Kun has to force himself to focus on what the physios are asking him, to try and explain what happened as best he can. 

They take him straight down the tunnel. He doesn't even see who they send on for him. When they reach the treatment room, there's still no interpreter. So, while the physio helps him of his boot and his sock and takes a look at his ankle, he's stuck trying to explain, with his limited English, what happened. The pain had been receding but with the physio moving his ankle and poking and prodding, it comes rushing back. 

People are talking all around him--to him--but he can't follow any of it. They finally find an interpreter and he arrives after it's all but over, just in time to tell Kun that they don't think it's anything serious, they'll do some scans tomorrow, but he should take it easy. He nods and even manages to to say, in English, "Okay. Thank you." 

He's just getting himself together, preparing to get down from the exam table, when Silva slips through the door. He must have come straight from the pitch. He's still dressed for the game. He comes straight to Kun, weaving his way through the departing physios and ignoring the interpreter's greeting. He stops right in front of Kun, comes so close he's practically standing between his legs. "How are you?" He puts his hand on Kun's shoulder. "How's your ankle?"

"They don't think it's serious."

"That's--" He pats Kun's chest with his other hand. "That's good." He keeps touching Kun, little pats to his shoulder and to his chest. Kun thinks about teasing Silva, about pointing out that it's his ankle he'd injured, not his chest, but Silva's wide-eyed, intensely earnest concern stops him. Instead he sits there and enjoys having Silva's hands all over him. "You're," Silva says, "sure you're..." 

"I'm fine," he says. "Tell me about the game."

"What? Oh. They scored but we still won." He says it offhandedly, distractedly, like the game doesn't matter to him. His hands flutter over Kun's chest. "You're--" he starts to say. Kun's not sure he's ever seen him like this, distracted, almost rattled, and it's because of him. He wants to smile but he's not sure how Silva'd take that. 

He reaches up and stills Silva's hands, presses them to his chest. "I'm fine. Really." The room's empty now, so he goes ahead and pulls Silva forward, traps him between his legs. "Come home with me," he says softly, "and I'll show you." 

Silva curls his fingers into his jersey and smiles. "Oh, and--" The door opens and he stops abruptly and steps away. 

It's Nasri. His gaze flickers between them, then he says, "I just--" He steps into the room and says something else.

"He says," Silva translates, "he just wanted to check on you, to see how you are." 

Kun smiles at Nasri. "Can you?" he says to Silva. 

Silva nods and says something to Nasri. Nasri smiles. "Good, that is very good." 

"Thank you," Kun says, "for ah, before with," he stumbles over the English, can't think of what word should go next, "thank you." 

Nasri smiles again. "It is--it is no problem. I am glad you are--" He gestures toward Kun. "Okay. I will--I--" He waves and then he ducks back out the door. 

"i should," Silva says, making an aborted gesture toward the door. Their warm closeness of a moment ago is gone and he sounds distant. 

"Right," Kun says, "But--but later?"

Silva smiles. "Yes. Okay." He turns to go. 

Kun decides now is as good a time as any to actually get down from the table. His ankle holds his weight and the pain has dulled down to just an ache but he can't stop the small sound he makes when he stands on it for the first time. 

Silva whirls around. He's right there next to him, wrapping his arm around Kun's waist, before Kun can say anything. "Are you--should you? Why didn't you just--" He sounds concerned but also more than a little exasperated. 

"It's fine," Kun says, "I--" He almost says he can stand, it's okay, but he doesn't actually want Silva to let go. "Could you," he says instead, "maybe--"

"Of course," Silva says and shifts closer. "Come on."

He carefully guides Kun back to the dressing room. Kun wants him to stay close once they get there, but when Pablo comes over to hover over Kun and check on him, he slips away.

Kun endures Pablo's hovering for a moment or two and does his best to reassure him. He keeps his eyes on Silva the whole time, watches him chat easily with Johnson and Milner. He brushes off Pablo. "I'm fine, really, I'm just--" 

Pablo smiles knowingly. "Yeah. Yeah. Go on then."

He rushes through getting changed and then goes to find Silva. He's still talking to Milner. Kun slips between them. Milner smiles and claps his shoulder. "All right, then?"

Kun nods. "Yes. Thank you."

"All right. See you then, eh?" Kun nods. 

Once Milner's gone, Silva turns to him and smiles. "So?"

Kun nudges him. "Are you ready?"

"You go, I'll--I'll see you soon, all right?"

"Okay, but soon, right?" He can't stop himself from asking for the reassurance.

Silva lightly touches his arm. "Soon."

Whenever Kun has Silva in the house, he always means to start off right, to not just plunge right in and put his hands all over him. But, despite his best intentions, that's always what happens. This time is no different. Maybe it's just that he sees Silva all the time and _can't_ do this, can't put his hands on him, can't kiss him until he makes that wanting sound deep in his throat, so when he _can_ , he can't stop himself. Silva doesn't seem to mind. 

They make it to a bed this time. They almost don't. Kun wouldn't care either way, but Silva frowns and says, "Your ankle, we should--" Kun's more concerned with getting Silva naked and getting his hands on him than if they do that on the sofa or on the floor. Silva's stubborn, though, and he insists they go upstairs. He won't let Kun do any of the work. He undresses him, lays him down on the bed and proceeds to drive him crazy. It's kind of amazing. 

Leo calls while Kun still has Silva sprawled sweaty and bonelessly sated on top of him. Silva scrapes his teeth along Kun's collarbone and says, "Aren't you going to answer that?"

If it were anyone but Leo, Kun thinks he'd ignore them in favor of kissing Silva. He loves to kiss Silva when he's like this, relaxed and pleasured and completely pliant. "I should," he says, drawing his fingers up along Silva's spine, "sorry."

Silva bites him, quick and sharp, at the base of his neck. "Okay," he says and rolls away.

Kun leans down over the side of the bed and fumbles in his pants for his phone. He answers it still bent over, his head near the floor, "Hello."

"Are you all right? Leo says, worry making his voice fretful and sharp.

"I," Kun says, straightening up, "Leo, what?"

"I saw the game. Are you all right?"

"Oh," Kun says, settling back against the headboard, "that. It's nothing. Really. It turned out to be nothing." Silva's splayed across the bed, legs and arms akimbo. He still has come smeared, sticky and wet, across his stomach. Kun wants to lick him clean, wants to run his tongue along his belly, along the sharp line of his hipbone.

"Kun," Leo says, tart and cross, "are you listening?"

"Hmm," Kun says, "Sorry, what'd you say?"

"I said," he says, "I'm glad it's nothing."

"Me too," Kun says distractedly, giving into temptation and running his fingers along Silva's side. Silva tilts his head towards him and smiles.

"Kun," Leo says, "Are you, what--I'll call you back."

"No," Kun says, "really, Leo, it's fine. Sorry. I'll--"

Silva rolls away and climbs off the bed. "I'll go," he mouths.

"No," Kun blurts, "stay, c'mon..."

"What?" Leo says. "Who're you talking to?"

"Um," Kun says. Silva's slipped off into the bathroom. "It's, Leo, it's--"

"Are you--God, Kun, you're--why did you answer the phone?"

"'Cause it was you."

"Oh, right," Leo says, soft and discomfited. "So," he adds, after a moment, with a bit of mischief, "Who is it?"

"Leo," he whines, "c'mon."

"Tell me," Leo demands, "Who?" Silva comes back into the room, and to Kun's disappointment he's dressed. He squints at him--there's something about his shirt. "Kun?"

"Huh?"

"Who?"

Silva comes around and leans over the bed. He doesn't kiss Kun. Kun was sort of hoping he would. He touches Kun's shoulder. "I'll see you later," he says softly. 

Kun tugs on his shirt. "Is this mine?"

Silva looks down. "Maybe," he says with a smile. "Is that a problem?"

"No," Kun says, pulling him down, "not a problem," as he kisses him, light and quick, "really not a problem." He drops the phone, he'll apologize to Leo in a minute, and gives him another kiss, a longer, deeper one. Silva makes a low, rough sound. "Stay," Kun says, tightening his grip on Silva's shirt. 

Silva's gaze flickers toward the bed--the phone. "I should--"

Silva never stays. Kun keeps waiting for him to stay but he never does. Maybe if he asks, maybe then he will. "Please," Kun says, "please." He tugs on Silva's shirt. "C'mon." He lets go of Silva and shifts over, picking up the phone so he's not sitting on it, and pats the bed. "Please."

Silva's staring at the phone in his hand. "Okay," he says. Kun can hear him kick off his shoes then he climbs onto the bed. He doesn't settle against Kun's side, though, he sits stiffly, a good distance away. "You can," he says, gesturing at the phone, "it's--I don't--"

Kun wants to push up next to him but he's not sure if, right now, Silva would like that. Now that he's convinced him to stay he doesn't want him to bolt, so instead he says into the phone, "Leo?"

"You dropped the phone," Leo says flatly. 

"Sorry," Kun says unrepentantly.

Leo scoffs, "Sure. Tell me who."

Kun considers it for a moment. It's Leo; there's no harm in telling Leo. "Silva," he says softly. Silva makes a short, startled sound when Kun says his name and he shifts even farther away from Kun. "We--" Kun starts to say then stops. Leo's quiet. Kun fidgets. "Leo?"

"I knew you liked him." He sounds smug. 

"Yeah, yeah," Kun says, relaxing back against the headboard.

"Kun," Leo says tentatively, "you're, I mean--"

He's not sure if Leo's asking about his ankle or about Silva. "Don't worry," he says, "it's fine. Really," and hopes that it is. 

As soon as Kun hangs up, Silva says flatly with a hint of accusation, "You told him." 

"Yes." He reaches for Silva but Silva shoves his hand away.

"Why?"

"He asked."

"And you just told him?"

"It's Leo." Leo keeps his secrets, knows almost all of them. 

"Right," Silva says sharply, "of course."

"He's not going to, you know, if that's what..." He reaches out and this time Silva allows him to rest his hand on his knee. "It's really not a big deal." 

"For you," Silva says softly, "maybe."

"I'm sorry," Kun says, rubbing his thumb along Silva's knee, "I, it's just Leo and I--"

Silva turns towards him. he smiles, close-mouthed and tight, and says, "It's okay, I--it's fine." Kun leans in and kisses him, runs his tongue along the seam of his lips. Silva doesn't yield to the kiss the way he usually does.

"I'm glad," Kun says, as he pulls away, "that you stayed." 

Silva's smile is warmer this time. "Oh?" Kun kisses him again and now Silva yields, opens his mouth under Kun's.

"Yes," Kun says against his mouth, "very glad." He pulls him down, tumbles him on top of him. 

Silva laughs. He settles himself, straddles Kun's hips and smiles down at him. "So," he says, running his fingers along Kun's collarbone, "you want me to stay, why's that?"

Kun settles his hands on Silva's sides, pushes Silva's shirt--his shirt--up and rests his hands on his bare skin. "I always want you to stay." 

Silva goes very still. "I want to stay," he says softly, "I--I want to stay." He leans down and kisses him with slow, devastating thoroughness. 

Later, Silva presses close, tangles their legs together, and tucks his face against Kun's shoulder. It's unusual. Kun's the one who's constantly trying to get closer, to keep Silva in his grasp. "Do you ever," Silva says, mumbling against Kun's skin, "wish you..."

He trails off and Kun waits for him to keep going, to finish his thought, but he doesn't. "What?" he prompts, idly, tracing his fingers up Silva's spine, "Do I ever wish, what?"

"That you'd gone somewhere else." He doesn't lift his head, speaks into Kun's shoulder. It makes his words hard to understand.

"Somewhere else?" He asks just make sure he'd heard correctly. Silva nods. It would be easy, in this moment, tangled together with Silva, sated and glorying in his closeness, to say no. He almost says it, even though it's not really true, even though he knows Silva wouldn't believe him. He remembers the days in Madrid, waiting and waiting and being driven crazy with frustration, while they tried to find a way for him to go to Real. Part of him still wonders what it would have been like if that had worked out. 

He pulls Silva closer, forgetting to be careful and digging his fingers hard into his back. Silva makes a startled sound but he lets Kun hold him tight. "I," Kun says, turning his face into Silva's hair, "I, here is, I--it was a good choice." He believes it. He hadn't always but he does now. 

Silva lifts his head and pushes back so they're face to face. "But," he says, "you don't, not even..."

He's asking, Kun realizes belatedly, about Leo, about Barcelona. "Sometimes," he says softly, because he always has wanted and always will want to play with Leo, "sometimes." 

Silva smiles, bittersweet, like he understands. "Yeah," he says, "sometimes I..." He stops, bites his upper lip, like he's trying to stop himself from saying more. 

Kun thinks of Villa, trading Valencia for Barcelona and a league title and a Champion's League win, while Silva traded it for City, and wonders what it is Silva won't let himself say. Wonders what other choices Silva wanted to make but couldn't. He wishes Silva would tell him but he knows he won't. He kisses him, glances his mouth across his. "I'm glad I came," he says, because it's true and he wants Silva to know, and Silva kisses him back. 

"Do you," Silva asks, when he pulls away, "think you'll stay?" 

Kun doesn't know what to say. He's surprised Silva asked. He's never thought about it. He thinks game to game and assumes the future will take care of itself, assumes that one day he'll go somewhere else, Spain again, or Italy, but he doesn't worry about when. "For now," he says. It's the best he can do. 

Silva nods, like that's what he expected him to say, and says, "Okay." 

He fits himself back against Kun. Kun automatically pulls him close. "And you?" He asks.

"For now," he says, pressing a kiss to to Kun's throat, "for now."

*

They win against Bayern but Villarreal loses to Napoli and that's it. They're done with the Champion's League, knocked down into the Europa League. It's jarring. It's the first thing to really go wrong since Kun arrived in Manchester. He'd thought they'd do it in the end, qualify. Stumbles, missteps and Carlos aside, he really had thought they would. 

There's a muted hush in the dressing room. Everyone moves slowly, like they're stunned and struggling to regain their bearings. 

Hart's slumped on the bench, fiddling with the fastening of his glove. Kun touches his shoulder as he passes him and Hart gives him a tired smile. 

He finds Silva sitting alone. He's bent over, unlacing one of his boots. Kun skims his fingers along the back of Silva's neck and waits. Silva finishes with the knot and drops the laces. He looks up. His whole face is slack with exhaustion. He stares at Kun for a moment, but he doesn't seem to really see him, then he bends back down. He starts on his other boot. He fumbles with the knot, tugging and pulling, but the laces stay tied. He says something. Kun can't quite make it out but he catches the tone, short and snappish. He knows better than to say anything. Instead, he waits. Silva gets it on the second try. He stays bent over, hands tangled in the laces, and Kun wants to ask what he's waiting for, why he's holding so tight to the laces. 

Silva lets go and straightens up. Kun settles his hand on Silva's shoulder, right at the join of his shoulder and his neck. He's warm and his skin's tacky with sweat. His expression is unsettlingly blank. "Kun," he says softly, and his expression changes, cracks open, leaving him looking oddly vulnerable almost a little lost. "I didn't," he says. His tone doesn't match his expression: it's ragged with irritation and something that skirts the line between anger and hurt. "I didn't--"

"Didn't what?" 

Silva looks away. "Didn't come here for--" He stops but Kun can fill in the rest. He didn't come here for this. Neither had Kun. They didn't come here to be good but not good enough. To compete with everyone at the top but not be quite good enough for anything important. They've both done that already, both had years of that. 

"I know," Kun says, and Silva looks back and stares up at him. "I know." Kun brushes his thumb along his throat, presses it to his pulse point, feels his heart beat. "Silva," he says slowly, unsure of the right words, unsure what to make of the unexpected raw vulnerability glittering through the cracks in Silva's expression, "Silva. Next season--next season will be different." It's the first time he's thought ahead, the first time he's really, fully embraced that Manchester, that City, isn't just a place he's arrived at for a fleeting stay but a place he's going to stay awhile, a place he's going to fight for. 

Silva looks up. "Do you think so?" he says with abrasive but not quite credible disbelief, "Really?" 

Kun squeezes his shoulder, digs his fingers in, fists his jersey in his hand. "I do. We," he says, "we are going to be even better and we are going to--" 

Silva's smile is a telling, cutting thing. "Yes," he says, reaching up and sliding his fingers along Kun's wrist, " _We_ are," and Kun believes--in Silva, in his teammates, in City--they're not done.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Agüero made his debut against [Swansea](http://www.mcfc.co.uk/News/Match-reports/2011/August/City-v-Swansea-City). He scored twice and provided the assist for Silva’s goal. 
> 
> 2\. Silva only completed [three months](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/manchester-city/9119322/Reluctant-hero-David-Silva-plays-through-the-pain-barrier-in-success-starved-Manchester-Citys-quest-for-trophies.html) of English lessons before stopping.
> 
> 3\. According to [Joleon Lescott](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/manchester-city/8785594/Manchester-City-and-Joleon-Lescott-firmly-on-the-right-track.html) Agüero used a fine system to help himself learn English.
> 
> 4\. After the Villarreal game, Agüero was involved in an [incident](http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2011/oct/19/villarreal-sergio-aguero-song-fracas) with a Villarreal player. Carlos Marchena was one of the people associated with Villarreal who later made unfavorable comments about Agüero’s behavior.
> 
> 5\. During the [Newcastle](http://www.mcfc.co.uk/News/Match-reports/2011/November/City-v-Newcastle) game, Agüero sustained a minor injury. Yes, he and Silva really did [hold](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_luy972zpyJ1r67p1fo2_r1_250.gif) [hands](http://30.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_luy972zpyJ1r67p1fo1_r1_250.gif) on the pitch.


End file.
